


when there's blood in the water

by ExultedShores



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Decapitation, F/M, Lizzy is her own warning, Medium Chaos (Dishonored), Medium Chaos Corvo Attano, Minor Character Death, Tagging as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21602116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: Corvo Attano and Lizzy Stride escape from Coldridge Prison together. Now Corvo has the Dead Eels at his back in his quest for vengeance - and everyone knows it's a bad idea to tangle with the Eels.Emily, at least, will be delighted at her father's new pirate friends.
Relationships: Corvo Attano/Lizzy Stride
Comments: 69
Kudos: 95





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BID](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BID/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is for BID, who prompted me to write "Lizzy/Corvo, he somehow ended up with her instead of the Loyalists". BID, dear, thank you for being awesome and sharing my obscure taste in rarepairs, I hope you like this one!

The security of Coldridge Prison is not nearly all it’s cracked up to be.

Once he’s made it out of his cell, getting the drop on the guards is almost laughably easy. Most don’t even try to hide their disinterest in their jobs, so certain are they that the thick stone walls and metal bars will hold the prisoners at bay. Clearly they did not anticipate one of their own leaving a key with Corvo’s breakfast that morning.

He is sure to make a statement as he stalks through the halls, putting the sword he found just outside his cell to good use. Those who were kind to him during his incarceration he lets live, knocks them out and places them down in the most comfortable position possible, but those who bullied him, those who laughed and jeered and spat in his food, for them he feels no remorse when he skewers them on his blade. They aren’t fit for their uniform.

Corvo ducks into the interrogation room unseen and unheard, and he swiftly makes his way to the back storage, purposefully not looking at the lone chair sitting innocuously in the middle of the room. This place is only pain and suffering, his latest burns still stinging his jaw fiercely, and Corvo grits his teeth as he passes through. If he wasn’t in need of the explosive his unfamiliar new allies planted here, he would have been content never to see this Voidforsaken torture chamber again.

Soon enough. Soon enough he’ll have the means to escape the Voidawful prison, and then he won’t ever have to look back. He just needs to grab the bomb and get out.

But of course, it’s never that easy.

He’s fiddling with the safe’s mechanism when he hears the door to the interrogation room swing open, crashing loudly into the wall. Cursing himself for not closing the door to the storage in his haste, Corvo manages to duck into the shadows only just in time, though he needn’t even have bothered; the guards have their hands more than full with the prisoner they’re escorting in. She’s a little thing, short and rail thin, but she struggles like a woman possessed, cursing like a sailor all the while, and it takes four guards to haul her to the chair and strap her in.

Another enters after them. “Thank you, men. We’ll handle Ms. Stride from here.”

Corvo barely contains a growl at the sound of that voice, unmistakably belonging to Watch Captain Galloway. Whenever Burrows couldn’t attend his ‘interrogations’ personally, Galloway was the one who took his place, asking him if he killed the Empress over and over and over again, no matter how many times Corvo denied it, pausing only to let Morris Sullivan inflict some new painful horror to his body before continuing the charade.

Naturally, Sullivan is here for the woman too; the so-called Royal Interrogator shuffles in as the lower guards are leaving, and he slams the door shut behind him.

And Corvo is trapped with them.

He can’t take the two of them, not here, not head on. Sullivan is a hulking brute more beast than man, a challenging opponent even if Corvo were at full strength – but he isn’t, his body still weak from his last session in this very room, and Sullivan knows exactly where he’s vulnerable. Corvo would have to take him out first, hope the element of surprise will give him the edge he needs, but that will leave him wide open to Galloway. He’s not particularly concerned about the Captain’s combat prowess; Galloway comes from the minor nobility, was promoted for his name and his cruelty more than any true merit. But he does carry a pistol, and he’ll be able to take a shot at Corvo easily – and even if he were to miss, the sound of it will have every guard in the vicinity swarming into the interrogation room, and Corvo can’t have that.

No, he’ll have to stay hidden and sit through this woman’s torture, no matter how much he may despise it. He’s not going back behind bars.

Corvo hardly dares to breathe as Galloway saunters leisurely towards the desk and turns on the audiograph machine. “Good morning, Ms. Stride. Are you ready to begin?”

The woman’s retort is unimaginative, but vehement. “Fuck you.”

“Language,” Galloway tuts. “Do I need to have you gagged again, Ms. Stride?”

“Whatever you get off on,” she grins. It earns her a backhanded slap from Sullivan, the harsh sound echoing throughout the room, but she seems anything but fazed. “Kinky fucker, aren’t you?”

Galloway makes a show of sighing in disappointment. “It appears we’ll have to begin with a lesson in manners. Again.” The glee in his voice is sickening. “Mr. Sullivan, if you would?”

Sullivan grunts, and Corvo very nearly gasps when he pulls out a wickedly curved knife, designed specifically to pierce flesh and cause as much pain as possible without hitting an artery or damaging muscles. Corvo can’t even begin to count how many of the scars on his body are courtesy of that particular knife; a plethora of ugly, jagged lines mostly carved into his arms and legs. They itch at the mere sight of the blade.

Sullivan holds the tip of the knife over the fire pit, and Galloway moves to stand behind the chair, leaning in close to the woman’s ear. “Last chance, Ms. Stride.”

Stride laughs. “Didn’t your daddy ever teach you that no means no? Or are you here because no one ever bothered to teach _him_ that?”

Galloway strikes her himself this time. “That’s enough out of you,” he snarls. “Sullivan, begin.”

Sullivan lumbers over, the now white-hot knife clenched tightly in his fist, and Corvo –

Corvo can’t watch this. Corvo can’t _allow_ this.

He’s moving before he can second-guess himself, lets himself be guided by adrenaline and instinct rather than rationale, rushing from his hiding place as quietly as he can manage. Stride’s eyes flick towards his form for the briefest of moments before they come to rest on Sullivan again, her face betraying nothing – and it is her discretion that allows him to lunge forward and stab his stolen sword horizontally through Sullivan’s neck.

He chokes on the steel, then on his own blood when Corvo pulls the blade back out and spins around in a fluid motion to face Galloway. The Captain manages to fumble his pistol from his belt, eyes wide and filled with an immensely satisfying amount of fear, but Corvo has too much momentum to be stopped. His blade smacks the weapon from Galloway’s hand, and before he can even think to scream, Corvo thrusts the sword between his ribs, straight through the heart. Corvo knows he’s dead even before his body crumples to the ground.

The sound of metal hitting stone has him whipping around again, but it’s just Sullivan knocking over the metal grate protecting the fire pit, sending hot pokers scattering across the floor. He’s clutching his throat, blood pouring from between his fingers, and his beady eyes lock on Corvo, one hand coming up as though he means to grab at him – and Corvo jerks back as he feels a hauntingly familiar force pull him forward, so very similar to the force that held him helplessly suspended in the air as he watched Jessamine get stabbed, heretical, magical, _dangerous_ –

But just as quickly as it came, it’s gone, and Sullivan slumps forward, landing, with a sickening thud, face-first in the burning coals.

Corvo stares at the corpse, breathing hard, his knuckles stark white from the overzealous way he’s gripping his sword. He’s dead. After months of dreaming about it, wishing for it, wanting to make it happen, his tormentor is finally _dead_. Too quickly, perhaps, too cleanly, not nearly enough suffering to compensate for all the pain he doled out in his life – but Corvo can’t bring himself to care about that. He’s _dead_ , and that’s all that matters.

His head snaps up when the woman strapped to the chair laughs loudly. “Would you look at that,” she positively coos, her smile all teeth – and what teeth they are, filed into wicked points that could tear out a throat as well as any wolfhound’s. “I’d clap for you, pretty boy, but my hands are a bit tied at the moment.”

The implication is anything but subtle – but Corvo isn’t about to just let loose a convicted criminal. “What are you in for?”

“Smuggling,” she answers promptly.

Except smuggling wouldn’t have landed her in the interrogation chamber, wouldn’t warrant multiple sessions with the likes of Galloway and Sullivan. Corvo raises an eyebrow at her.

“Pretty _and_ clever,” she grins. “That’s rare, in a man.”

“Don’t play games with me,” Corvo snaps. “Tell me what you’re in for.”

She shrugs as best she can in her restraints. “River piracy. Murder. Heading up an organisation of likeminded individuals.” A gang, she means. “Take your pick.”

“Which gang?”

“The Dead Eels.”

He’s heard of the Eels. Never tangled with them much; they were formed after he was appointed Royal Protector, when dealing with gangs wasn’t his job anymore. But he remembers Curnow mention them once or twice, in stories from back when he was a Lieutenant, and he knows they aren’t people to mess with.

And he can’t in good conscience set free their leader.

“Look,” Stride says, sensing his hesitation, “I know your sort. Honourable and all that oxshit – we all know you didn’t off the Empress – but you’re not above doing what needs to be done. And I can assure you, you’ll get things done a Void of a lot quicker with the Eels at your back.”

And that’s… tempting, he has to admit. Whoever the people who smuggled him the key to his cell are, they can’t possibly have anything on the most notorious gang on the Wrenhaven.

“How do I know you’re not conning me?” he demands. “If I release you now, what guarantee do I have you won’t double-cross me the first chance you get?”

Her face twists into a snarl. “I’m not in the habit of _betrayal_ ,” she spits. There’s a story there, he can tell. “I can’t give you anything but my word, but you can be Voiddamned sure I’ll honour it.”

It shouldn’t be enough. It _isn’t_ enough. But for Void’s sake, he can’t very well leave her here with the corpses of her torturers either. If there’s something _he_ is not in the habit of doing, it’s letting other people take the fall for his crimes.

“You have a deal.”

A quick search of Galloway’s pockets reveals a master key, and Corvo unlocks the chains binding Stride to the chair – neck, arms, abdomen, legs, the works. When it’s done, she makes a show of stretching, her back popping loudly, and she heaves a content sigh. “Ah, that’s the stuff. Much obliged, pretty boy.”

“The name’s Corvo,” he grumbles.

“Good to know, pretty boy. I’m Lizzy.”

“You’re a nuisance is what you are,” Corvo mutters. “Here, take this.”

He hands her Galloway’s sword, and she takes it with a faintly bemused expression on her face. “Aren’t you worried I’ll stick this in your back?”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll be turning my back on you,” he quips. “Besides, killing me before we’re out will only work against you. And you don’t do betrayal, or so I’ve been told.”

Her answering grin is wicked. “I’ll take point, then.”

He lets her – though only when he’s ready, when he’s taken Galloway’s pistol, torn up the audiograph that recorded their conversation, and most importantly, retrieved the explosive from the safe in the back room. Being out of confinement is all well and good, but they’ll need true firepower if they want to have any chance at actually making it out of this place.

To his mild surprise, their path through the prison is swift and silent. Lizzy is not nearly as careful as he was, putting guards to the sword without prejudice, but she does it quickly and methodically, like a trained killer would. Well, except for one – she is sure to castrate him before she slits his throat, and the look in her eyes as she does so is enough to keep Corvo from asking questions.

They reach the outer door without the alarm being rung – which Corvo considers a small miracle, if he’s honest – but the blast from the bomb will most certainly not go unnoticed. They need to be prepared.

“Once this goes off, we’ll have to jump,” he tells his new companion. “Head for the sewers. We can regroup there.”

She nods. “Let’s blow this joint.”

The explosion is deafening, his ears ringing as he sprints for the newly created hole in the wall, hot on Lizzy’s heels. He can barely hear the loud blaring of the alarm, doesn’t dare to look back to see how many guards are pursuing them, and he jumps without hesitation, freedom finally within reach.

Corvo hits the water hard, sinking down underneath its surface, and it takes him a while to regain his bearings. Lizzy is faster than he is, already swimming towards the entrance to the sewers with broad, fast strokes; it’s clear she’s used to being in the water. She makes it ashore before he’s even halfway caught up to her, and she breaks into a sprint, disappearing from sight in the blink of an eye.

He curses and picks up his pace – he should’ve _known_ , should’ve realised she’d run first chance she got, shouldn’t have expected anything else. Void, why is he still expecting so much of people when they’ve shown him time and time again what a fool he is for doing so?

It doesn’t matter. Corvo hoists himself out of the water, shaking the droplets from his hair. He’s already out of prison, and he doesn’t need Lizzy Stride. It would have been nice to have a gang at his back while he works to find Emily, but he’ll make do. He always makes do.

Except he won’t have to make do alone, as he expected. For when he steps through the door leading into the sewers, he’s pulled in by the shirt of his prison garb, the door slammed shut behind him, and he can’t help but stare at Lizzy as she wedges Galloway’s sword firmly underneath the door handle, making it impossible to open from the other side.

“About damn time,” she snaps at him, hands on her hips. “Not much of a swimmer, are you?”

“I… never had much need to,” he answers after a beat, astonished at the mere fact that she’s still here, that she didn’t take her chance and ran.

She notices his bewildered expression, and she grins. “I told you, pretty boy, I don’t do betrayal. And Lizzy Stride’s as good as her word.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t fucking thank me, I owe you,” she snorts. “Now come on. I’ve no intention of sleeping in this shithole tonight.”

Lizzy takes point again, even now that she’s unarmed, and together, they head deeper into the sewers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they were inmates.
> 
>  _Oh my god_ , they were inmates.


	2. II

As it turns out, the people who left him the bomb and the key to his cell have another surprise in store.

“Outsider’s balls, that’s a fancy cutter.” Lizzy lets out a low whistle as she spins the sword in her hand, the blade folding seamlessly back into its hilt. “Easy to stash, too.”

“You can keep it,” Corvo says. The officer’s sword he stole does its job perfectly well, the feel of it familiar in his hand from his own days as a Watchman. He’s personally much more interested in the lightweight crossbow that’s been left for him, complete with different types of ammunition, from sleep darts to incendiary bolts. That particular gift he’ll gladly keep himself.

Admittedly, he feels a little guilty about leaving these people to their own devices when they’ve clearly put a lot of thought into getting him out of Coldridge alive. But then they knew the gamble they were taking, couldn’t have been sure he’d make it, and if he’s honest, Corvo is done putting others before himself. What _he_ wants, what he _needs_ , is to find his daughter. And he’s quite convinced he’ll have a better shot at that with the Dead Eels than with these shadowy figures.

“Careful there, pretty boy,” Lizzy lilts as she hooks her new weapon to her belt. “You keep giving a girl nice things like this and she might read into it.”

Corvo can’t help but laugh. “I suppose I _did_ just give you my sword.”

Lizzy grins, her eyes bright. “When we make it out of here, I wouldn’t mind seeing what else you’re packing.”

And Corvo… is not as adverse to that as he probably should be. His heart still belongs to Jessamine, will likely belong to her for a long time to come, if not for the rest of his days. But Lizzy’s not asking him for his heart – and he has to admit, after two months at sea and six months in prison, he won’t so easily turn down a willing partner.

Besides, Lizzy is a striking woman. She’s nothing like Jessamine, all hard lines and rough edges, but Corvo likes the gleam in her eyes, the easy way she carries herself, the tattoos that cover most of her skin. She looks like freedom.

And Corvo hasn’t been free since he held aloft the trophy for the Blade Verbena, before he became a Grand Guard, before he was shipped off to Dunwall, before he was appointed Royal Protector. Since his sixteenth year, he’s had some obligation or another holding him captive – and now he doesn’t any longer. There is Emily, of course, but he’ll find her because he _wants to_ , because he loves her, because she’s _his_ , not because someone ordered him to. And when he has her back… well, she always did want to be a pirate.

Perhaps there is a life for them away from Dunwall and all the horrors it holds.

But that’s not a thought he should be entertaining just yet.

The sewers are an intricate system of interconnecting tunnels Corvo could easily have gotten lost in if not for Lizzy. Not long after stumbling upon the cache of weapons left for him, she guides him away from the path those people would have had him follow, leads him instead deeper into the bowels of the city.

“That way goes to the river, yeah,” she says, “but it’s just a niche in the cliffside. Nice place to store contraband, but not good for much else.”

“Where are we headed, exactly?”

“Draper’s Ward,” Lizzy tells him. “We’ll move underneath the Estate District, surface just past Kaldwin’s Bridge, then pass through the Old Waterfront. That part of the city is mostly made up of factories, and most of those were abandoned when the plague turned things to shit. If that bastard Burrows wasn’t so keen on keeping control of the fisheries, the Eels would’ve expanded their territory ages ago.”

Her tone is flat, business-like, and Corvo doesn’t miss the hint of bitterness in her voice. “Lizzy,” he calls, “how did you end up in Coldridge, exactly?”

She flinches, then tries to deny her discomfort by barking a laugh that sounds far from genuine. “What’s it matter? We’re out now.”

“And I’d rather not go back,” Corvo says. “I’d like to think that won’t happen once we reach your people, but you had the Dead Eels under your command and you still got arrested. How?”

Lizzy crosses her arms. “I got double-crossed, alright?” she snaps. “My second in command set me up to fall so he could take over the Eels. I blundered headfirst into a trap because I was stupid enough to trust that son of a bitch.” She clucks her tongue, clearly still angry with herself. “There. Happy?”

Not in the slightest. “So what you’re telling me,” he nearly growls, “is that you don’t have control of your gang anymore. The same gang you promised would help me in return for breaking you out of prison.”

She snorts derisively, the sound echoing eerily throughout the tunnel. “Wakefield had to land me in the hole before any of the others would even think to follow his lead,” she points out, not in the least concerned. “And now, I’ve broken out of the one place no one’s ever supposed to escape from. They’re probably announcing it over the loudspeakers already, and dear old Edgar will be sweating balls. If the fucker is stupid enough not to make a run for it, he’ll be in for a nasty surprise. The Dead Eels know which side their bread’s buttered on.”

She sounds more than sure of herself, and Corvo wants very much to believe her. “I hope you’re right.”

For his own sake, yes, but also for hers. Because he did not just spring a convicted criminal from jail for nothing, and if she can’t repay him, he’ll damn well make sure he takes her off the streets again. Permanently.

Lizzy picks up on the threat in his tone, and she looks back at him, her filed teeth bared. “Careful there, pretty boy,” she drawls, her own threat not nearly so thinly veiled. “Don’t show your teeth unless you’re prepared to tear out a few throats.”

“Who says I’m not?” he shoots back, but even he has to admit his tone lacks bite. There are definitely people he wants to murder – Burrows, Campbell, the Knife of Dunwall – but on the whole, he’d rather fetch his daughter with as little bloodshed as possible. Killing is the surest way to make enemies, and he’s already got enough of those, now that he’s been fingered as the man who assassinated the Empress. And all this hatred, whether directed towards him or radiating _from_ him, is _exhausting_.

She sees the weariness settle over him, and her face softens somewhat. “How’d _you_ land in the slammer, then?” Lizzy slows her pace so they’re walking side by side, the long tunnel they’re traversing now requiring little guidance. “I know, Empress Jess, yeah, but how did anyone even make it past you, let alone set you up to take the fall? I know you’re no pushover, not if you can take down those assholes Sullivan and Galloway even after spending half a year locked up.”

Corvo swallows thickly. The memory of being held immobile in mid-air, unable to do anything but watch as his charge was murdered and their child kidnapped, has him gritting his teeth. “How are you so sure I didn’t kill her?” he deflects.

“Because you’re too smart for that,” she surprises him with her answer, delivered promptly. “You were clever, back in the interrogation room. Calculated. A man like that wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill anyone out in broad daylight. Or at least, he’d be smart enough not to get caught.”

The bluntly offered compliment brings a weak smile to his face. “They came out of nowhere,” he mutters. _Mommy, what are they doing on the rooftops?_ “They possessed these… otherworldly powers. I couldn’t stop them, I couldn’t…”

He trails off, frustrated, and Lizzy hums. “The Whalers, huh? Should’ve figured as much. Daud never did know when to quit.”

She says it so casually, he almost thinks he’s misheard her. “You _know_ them? _Him_?”

“Yeah,” Lizzy shrugs, unperturbed. “Sometimes I need someone dead who’s not easy to get to. Sometimes Daud needs something smuggled into Dunwall that’s not easy to find. It’s a symbiotic relationship.”

“A symbiotic relationship,” Corvo repeats flatly.

“Make nice with the assassins and they won’t come to murder you in your sleep.” She says it as though it’s an age old proverb. “The Hatters would’ve taken out a dozen contracts on my life if I didn’t have a deal with Daud. Of course, he doesn’t want to kill any of those bastard Hatters for me either, but I’d rather slaughter the fuckers myself anyway. Much more entertaining.”

Corvo nods absently, trying to digest this new information. Strangely, he’s not angry, even though he logically ought to be, knowing his choice of ally dallies with assassins – but Lizzy’s association with Daud, while unsettling, could very well be the key to locating Emily. Daud and his men were the ones who took her, likely the only ones bar Burrows and Campbell who know where she’s being held. Through Lizzy, it’ll be possible to find Daud, to obtain Emily’s location from him, one way or another. Not that he’s particularly eager to face the Void-cursed assassin, not yet, not when he can’t simply put him to the sword and be done with it, but he wants his daughter back, and if it takes negotiating with the Knife of Dunwall, then so be it.

He doesn’t voice his thoughts to Lizzy, keeps his cards close to his chest for now. They need to regroup with the Dead Eels first, wrestle command of the gang away from Lizzy’s former second. He’ll deal with one cutthroat group at a time.

Lizzy elbows him and points ahead, at what is quite literally the light at the end of the tunnel. “Look alive, pretty boy. We’re almost there.”

They exit on the outskirts of the Old Waterfront, just as Lizzy said they would, and not even the thick smog that seems to have settled over the industrial district like a thick blanket makes his first breath of air as a free man any less exhilarating. No matter what happens next, at least he’s not going to die in that prison, or on the executioner’s block. If he goes down now, he’ll go down on his own terms, and the mere knowledge of that is enough to loosen the knot in his chest that’s been tightly cinched there since the moment Daud’s blade pierced Jessamine’s stomach.

It’s his first taste of freedom, and it truly does taste sweet.

* * *

They spend what little daylight they have left scouring the abandoned factories for resources, making sure to stay far away from the fisheries and oil processing plants to avoid running into any guards. They’re both exhausted after their trek through the sewers, neither of them in great shape to begin with, and starting a fight is the last thing even Lizzy wants to do right now.

Attempting to make it all the way to Draper’s Ward without rest is a fool’s errand, so they set up camp in a factory built to produce cheap clothing for the working class citizens. Corvo feels marginally more like a human being after washing himself in one of the sinks in the locker room, trading in the threadbare prisoner’s uniform he’s been forced to wear for months for several layers of drab but warm clothes. Lizzy somehow managed to scrounge up a leather jacket from somewhere – not _this_ factory, he’s sure of that – and they stay awake just long enough to scarf down some cold canned beans before laying down to rest on piles of shirts that make a better mattress than their cots in Coldridge ever did.

Perhaps he should be more concerned about being so out in the open while he rests, the factory abandoned but not secured, but he’s honestly too tired to dwell on it. No one knows he’s here save Lizzy, and she won’t kill him in his sleep. She doesn’t do betrayal, after all, and he trusts in the truth of that statement, even if he doesn’t completely trust _her_ just yet.

Corvo dozes off with his mind blissfully blank.

And he wakes, what feels like seconds later, in an entirely different world.

His surroundings still look like the factory where he sought refuge, but it’s a poor imitation, a mockery of the real world. The pile of clothes underneath his back is rigid, a single object rather than dozens of shirts thrown together; the machinery scattered throughout the factory floor casts no shadows, because there is no light, not truly; through the windows, he can see an endless blue stretch across forever.

The Void.

His first instinct, for reasons he can’t name, is to check on Lizzy. She’s still curled up on her pile of clothes on the other side of the room, the leather jacket she found splayed over her lithe form in lieu of a blanket.

“Lizzy,” he calls from afar, making his footsteps loud as he approaches her, to let her know he isn’t a threat. She doesn’t respond, her form strangely still, and when Corvo kneels at her side, hesitantly reaching over to shake her shoulder, she is colder than ice underneath his fingertips.

His heart leaps into his throat, panic seizing it for a brief moment before his mind catches up to him, and he scoffs at himself. Lizzy isn’t dead. She’s not even here. This is nothing more than another mirage, the Void mimicking reality. Corvo is alone in this place.

Except he’s not.

“My dear Corvo,” the voice rings out before its owner appears before him in a swirl of smoke, “your life has certainly taken a turn.”

He’s a young man, not yet an adult, and Corvo wouldn’t even have given him a second glance if he’d met this boy on the streets, so deceptively ordinary is he at first glance. But his eyes are entirely, endlessly black, lacking iris and pupil, and he’s casually hovering above the ground, forcing Corvo to crane his neck to look up at him. There is nothing ordinary about him.

The Outsider, Corvo surmises from the stories he’s heard, and the very second the deity’s moniker crosses his mind, the boy smiles. “Indeed. I am the Outsider, and you, Corvo Attano, have caught my attention.”

Corvo can taste bile. “Like Daud did?”

His question is laden with accusation, but the Outsider merely cocks his head. “Yes,” he confirms. “Daud was very interesting when he sought my shrines, all those years ago. I knew he would change the world with the power I bestowed upon him. For better, or for worse.”

The idea that Daud could have changed the world for the better is laughable.

“Now, it is your turn,” the Outsider continues. “Accept my Mark, and entertain me.”

He speaks in a flat monotone, as though he’s asking Corvo for the time rather than offering him magical powers, and it rubs Corvo entirely the wrong way. “No,” he all but snarls. “I’m _nothing_ like Daud.”

“No,” the Outsider agrees. “If you were like Daud, you would not be a novelty, and I would not have pulled you into my Void. You are Corvo Attano, and you have the potential to be more interesting than he ever was.”

Corvo breathes deeply, trying to calm his racing heart. The Outsider’s offer is enticing, he can’t deny that – powers like Daud’s would help him recover Emily from whatever stronghold they have her locked up in, would allow him to bypass security, to slit the throats of those who conspired to kill Jessamine without ever even being seen. But…

“What do you want in return?”

“I already told you. I wish to be entertained.”

“I’m not a puppet,” Corvo snaps. Void, but he is so _done_ with always dancing to another’s tune.

“All mortal beings are puppets, chained by time and by fate,” the Outsider says. “But _I_ will not chain you. How you use what I will give you falls upon _you_ , as it has on the others before you. I will merely watch, and I expect a good show.”

And that’s… acceptable, if also unnerving. If he will truly be able to use these abilities as he pleases, then he’d be a fool to turn the Outsider down. If nothing else, he has to think of Emily.

“Fine,” he sighs. He’s so Voiddamned tired. “I accept.”

 _Then_ the Outsider grins, wider than any human could. “Outstanding.”

The back of his left hand _burns_ , but from the inside, and Corvo watches with equal parts fascination and horror as the Outsider’s symbol, his _Mark_ , appears on his flesh as though it was tattooed there, the lines black as midnight.

“In a different life, I might have presented you with another gift. But you already have everything you could need, do you not?” He looks past Corvo – _through_ Corvo, it feels like – at the Void-conjured figure of Lizzy, perpetually suspended in sleep. “I leave you in her hands. And I will be watching with great interest.”

The next time Corvo blinks, he wakes – to Lizzy, bent over him, her arm raised high, poised to strike. He catches her wrist before her hand can make contact with his cheek – though from the stinging pain thrumming through the left side of his face, this isn’t the first time she’s slapped him.

“Good morning to you, too,” he grunts.

Lizzy snatches her hand back, her expression immediately shifting from concern to ire. “Rise and shine, pretty boy,” she says. “We have things to do. Can’t have you sleeping through this stunningly beautiful day.”

She gestures to the windows, thick droplets hammering on the glass relentlessly, and Corvo smiles at the sight. After prison, even Dunwall’s Voidawful weather is a sight for sore eyes. He hasn’t walked in the rain in months.

“Let’s get going, then.”


	3. III

Draper’s Ward is nothing short of a warzone.

“Shit,” Lizzy mutters, quietly, but with feeling. “The fucking Hatters actually left their precious little textile mill. I can’t _believe_ Wakefield let them take over this whole side of the canal.”

“So, now what?” Corvo inquires, his eyes never leaving the Hatter wandering nearest to their little crevice. The Hatters have certainly made themselves at home here – they won’t just let the former leader of the Dead Eels and her companion waltz through to the waterfront without a fight. A fight Corvo and Lizzy are likely to lose based on numbers alone, even with the added advantage of the Mark of the Outsider.

Lizzy sets her jaw. “We’ll have to go around,” she says, spitting the words like they’re wine turned sour. “Easiest way would be by river, but we don’t have a boat, and I’m not taking you swimming again. Can’t have you drown on me, pretty boy.”

“Your concern is touching,” Corvo drawls. She makes a fair point, though; he’s not a great swimmer, and he’d rather not brave the hagfish-infested Wrenhaven. “What’s the second easiest way?”

“The longest one. Through the outskirts, loop around the whole fucking district.” Her lip curls. “The Eels have the waterfront on lockdown – even put a gate in the Voiddamned sewers. We didn’t want the Hatters to catch us with our pants down.”

And now her safety measures are working against them. Typical. “What about up high?” he asks. “Any precautions up on the rooftops?”

“There’s a couple of Eels on the roof of one of the old shops, keeping an eye on the Hatters. Or, there were, back when I was running the joint. Don’t know what Wakefield’s been up to. Nothing much, considering the state of this place.”

Corvo already has one eye on the rooftops, an idea taking shape. The Hatters don’t seem to have any sentries up high – and why would they, really, when it’s impossible to cross the distance between the buildings on either side of the canal?

Impossible for someone not touched by the Void, that is.

_Mommy, what are they doing on the rooftops?_

His eyes drop to the Mark sitting innocuously on the back of his left hand, looking more like an unusual tattoo than a source of supernatural abilities. He’s not used it yet, hasn’t tried drawing on its magic – hasn’t wanted to, if he’s honest, still uneasy about sharing the same source of power as Daud.

But Corvo isn’t Daud, he’s _not_ , and he didn’t accept the damn Mark so he could spend the rest of his life not using it.

“Lizzy,” he says, “I have an idea.”

“Shoot,” she replies. “If it means not having to walk around this entire shithole, I’m all for it.”

“We go high.” He’s already plotting the route in his mind. “We’ll bypass the Hatters, move straight to the waterfront. You can have that new sword embedded in your second’s eye socket before the sun goes down.”

“Brilliant,” Lizzy says, voice perfectly deadpan. “Or I could just stab you now, save us both the trouble of climbing up a roof and breaking our damn necks.”

“Tempting,” Corvo returns in the exact same tone, “but I was thinking of something a bit more practical.”

He taps the back of his left hand, showing her the Mark, and Lizzy cocks an eyebrow. “What’s your prison ink got to do with this?”

“It’s not –” He cuts himself off with a click of his tongue. He’d assumed Lizzy would know the symbol of the Outsider, would know what it means, if only because she’s worked with Daud before. But then Daud wore gloves, that day on the gazebo, and he doesn’t seem the type to flaunt the source of his mysterious powers. “I can get us across. Trust me.”

“You’re asking for an awful lot there, pretty boy.” Her eyes flick from the streets to his face, then up to the balcony he’s eyeing. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

But she concedes, allows him to wrap his right arm around her waist without even cracking an unsubtle innuendo, and Corvo flexes his Marked hand, curls it into a fist, the Void tingling just underneath his skin. Drawing on the power is instinctive more than anything, magic burning up his arm as he focuses on his desired destination – and the second he unclenches his fist, they’re _up_.

It’s nothing at all like he feared. He doesn’t vanish into shadows, like Daud and his Whalers had. Instead, it’s as though his power propels him with an impossible speed, traversing the distance in the blink of an eye, his magic a brilliant, soft blue, like the colour of the Void’s endless sky. The feeling is _exhilarating_.

He doesn’t quite realise he’s grinning until said grin is forced from his face by Lizzy planting her elbow into his side, hard. “What the _fuck_ , Attano?”

Corvo starts at the harsh tone of her voice. “You’re not one of the Abbey’s devout, are you?” he attempts to joke.

Lizzy scowls, stepping away from him and crossing her arms. “Why didn’t you tell me you could do that?” she hisses, still mindful of the Hatters prowling the streets below. “We wouldn’t have had to hide in the sewers like Voiddamned rats if I’d known you could fucking _teleport_!”

“I couldn’t!” Corvo barely remembers to keep his voice at a whisper. “I didn’t get this magic until last night. I dreamt –”

“You _dreamt_?” she interrupts, incredulous.

“Yes, I _dreamt_ , Lizzy. How is that harder to believe than the teleporting?”

She deflates somewhat, her expression contemplative. “Is that why I couldn’t wake you up?”

Corvo nods. He’s a light sleeper, courtesy of Coldridge; nothing but the Void itself could keep him under so deep. “I dreamt about the Void, and the Outsider, and he gave me this.” He taps the Mark again. “I thought you’d know it, considering your affiliation with Daud.”

“Never seen it before,” she mutters. “The Big Knife keeps himself covered up. And his people don’t have anything like that on the back of their hands. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

Corvo raises an eyebrow at her, and she smirks. “What? A girl has needs. And Daud’s second is a more than decent lay.”

Alright, that definitively falls under the category ‘too much information’. “We should keep moving, before the Hatters spot us up here.”

Lizzy’s grin widens at his blatant changing of the subject, but there’s truth in his words, and she wordlessly tucks herself back into his side.

A wave of his hand, and they’re up on the roof of the building; another, and they’re balancing atop one of the tall streetlights hanging over the canal. It’s a narrow surface, slippery from the recent rain, and he blinks twice more in quick succession, first to the streetlight on the other side of the canal, then immediately ahead to the nearest rooftop, his and Lizzy’s forms barely a flicker to the naked eye, nothing but a trick of the light.

He has to stop there, just to catch his breath; he feels as though he ran the distance they just traversed, his lungs burning as fiercely as the Mark atop his hand. It’s Lizzy who sets to figuring out the route they’ll take from here, her familiarity with the area a great asset, and when Corvo’s magic has replenished itself, they set off again at once, blinking across the rooftops to the waterfront proper without anyone being the wiser.

“There she is,” Lizzy whispers with something akin to reverence, her eyes locked inescapably on the lone, massive ship sitting in the harbour. “My _Undine_.”

“Good name for a ship.”

“Named it after some old Morleyan folktale,” she says. “Used to wish I was an undine when I was a kid. Wanted nothing more than to be free and kill bastard men.”

“You seem to be doing alright in those regards,” Corvo notes.

She scoffs. “I just spent four months in prison, and my ship isn’t under my control.”

“You’re out of prison now,” he points out, “and your ship is _right there_.”

“Yeah,” Lizzy agrees. “And so is the bastard I want to rip apart.”

“So, how do you want –?” Corvo begins, but she’s already gone, hopping from their roof down to an awning and then to the ground. “Oh, _Outsider’s eyes_.”

He hisses the curse through clenched teeth as he sinks down into the shadows, staying out of sight but keeping a close eye on Lizzy as she strolls across the waterfront like she owns it – which, fair enough, she should. He would have preferred to discuss a plan of attack beforehand, but Lizzy is a woman of action, clearly, and he admires that as much as it frustrates him. For now, he’ll just stay put, watch, jump in when or even _if_ he’s needed. This is Lizzy’s vengeance, and he’ll gladly let her have it.

“Hey, Wakefield!” Where minutes ago the little harbour was alive with voices, now it’s only Lizzy’s, her words echoing menacingly across the water. “Let’s have a chat!”

Only silence responds, a tense, suffocating quiet. Corvo takes stock of the Eels who reach for their weapons, his crossbow loaded and ready to take out any would-be assailants, but no one moves except for Lizzy, sauntering ever closer to her ship. She stops just short of its starboard, waiting – and then a man appears from below deck.

“Lizzy,” he says, trying and failing to keep his voice level.

“Edgar,” she mimics his tone. “It’s been too long.”

Not long enough, if the look on Wakefield’s face is anything to go by. “Nothing for you here, Lizzy. The Eels have no use for a leader who gets outsmarted by the City Watch.”

Lizzy laughs, the sound harsh and mirthless. “The City Watch couldn’t outsmart a hagfish. They need someone to spell things out for them, to tell them exactly when and where a deal is going down. Isn’t that right?”

That has the Eels muttering amongst themselves again, a sense of unease settling over the waterfront – but Wakefield is quick to shut it down. “Does it matter? You still got caught by a handful of choffers in uniform, like an amateur.” His voice grows steadily louder, drowning out the low murmurs of the other gang members. “You got soft, Lizzy.”

Lizzy’s answering smile is all teeth. “Why don’t you come down here, Edgar, and I’ll show you exactly how soft I am.”

“You’re unarmed and alone,” Wakefield observes, growing bolder the longer he remains alive in Lizzy’s presence. “You don’t have shit on me.”

Corvo begs to differ – and so does Wakefield, when the crossbow bolt hits the back of his knee and his leg gives out from under him. He screams in pain, his head immediately shooting up to see where the projectile came from, but Corvo is already gone, his magic effortlessly carrying him to a different rooftop.

He spots one of the other Eels grabbing for a bottle of some sorts, no doubt to lob it at Lizzy, and he wastes no time shooting another bolt. The glass bottle shatters upon impact, enveloping the Eel and those close to her in a nasty-looking cloud of gas the colour of river krust acid.

It’s an invitation to discord, and nearly all of the Eels scramble to draw their blades, to grab their own bottles of acid – but they’re unsure who or what to fight, whether to side with Lizzy or with Wakefield. There are two captains on their ship, and they don’t know who’s truly at the helm.

Not for long, though. Not if Lizzy Stride has anything to say about it. Amidst the chaos, Lizzy unhooks the folding sword from her belt, swiftly transforming the seemingly useless bare hilt into a deadly weapon, and she leaps with a scream of fury, vaulting the ship’s gunwale, going straight for Edgar Wakefield’s throat.

They topple out of sight, and Corvo straightens instinctively, his heart hammering in his chest. Lizzy can handle herself, he knows; he’s seen how ruthlessly efficient she is with a blade, how fearless she is, how headstrong. He also knows she’ll never forgive him if he intervenes now, undermining her authority, stealing her vengeance – but that does nothing to alleviate his concern. Somewhere in the last two days, he grew attached to Lizzy Stride.

And he’s not prepared to lose her like he lost Jessamine.

But then Jessamine was not a fighter, not a killer, not trained to wield a sword. That’s why she needed a bodyguard – and that’s why Corvo will never forgive himself for failing her.

Lizzy, however, does not need a bodyguard. Lizzy can slay her own demons just fine.

She rises to the raucous cheers of her people, her teeth bared into a feral grin, blood clinging to her skin, and Edgar Wakefield’s decapitated head clutched tightly in her hand, held aloft for all to see.

“Come on down and take a bow, pretty boy!” she shouts over the noise. “You’ve fucking earned it!”

He damn well has.

Corvo calls upon his magic and blinks down from his rooftop, appearing in a flash of blue at Lizzy’s right shoulder, flanking her as he would Jessamine whenever she needed to deliver a speech. He graces the Eels with a straight-backed bow, feeling a grin creep up his face when one of the gang members exclaims a vehement “Oh, fuck!” at the sight of him.

Lizzy flings Wakefield’s head off the side of the ship, into the depths of the Wrenhaven below. It takes mere seconds for the hagfish to tear it to pieces. “Now then,” she begins, gripping the _Undine_ ’s gunwale as she addresses the Eels on the dock below, “everyone who embraces this wondrous return to old management, up on deck. Everyone else… is free to leave. Because I’m in a generous mood, I’ll give you a whole day’s head start.”

Unsurprisingly, there’s not a single Dead Eel who doesn’t scamper aboard the _Undine_ immediately.

“Scurrying like rats,” Lizzy mutters, sounding pleased. “Hang tight for a bit, pretty boy. I have some collateral to collect.” She’s already two paces away from him when she remembers herself. “Thank you. I… couldn’t have gotten this far on my own. And I haven’t forgotten my promise.”

“I know,” he says, because he does. “Go give your speech.”

She goes, climbing up the stairs to the bridge so she can address her gang – though it’s less of a speech, and more of a warning. Lizzy won’t tolerate any more missteps, and a rather long list of Eels will have to give up one of their fingers for their role in Wakefield’s underhanded scheme.

When she’s done, Corvo stays down on deck for a minute, taking stock of the Dead Eels who decided to stay. Some, he finds out from listening in to snippets of conversation, lament the loss of Wakefield, but most of them seem tentatively excited to have Lizzy back as their leader.

It’s enough, for now.

He blinks up to the bridge, where he finds Lizzy bent over a washbasin, scrubbing Wakefield’s blood from her skin.

Corvo approaches her as she’s cleaning the last bits of gunk from her hair. “Quite a few fingers you’re taking.”

She gives him a sly smile. “I wouldn’t mind having a few of yours either, pretty boy.”

His lips seem to curl up on their own accord. “I thought you wanted my sword?”

“If you’re any good, there’ll be plenty of time for both.”

Void, but it’s a tempting offer. “Are you sure you don’t want to spend some time with your people?” his conscience demands he ask. “It’s been four months.”

Lizzy snorts. “ _My people_ sat on their asses and watched as Wakefield set me up and seized control. Those who tried to stop it are long dead now.” She shrugs as she says it, but there is a tremor in her voice. “You, on the other hand, busted me out of Coldridge when you could’ve just left me in that chair and gone on your merry fucking way. So they’ll forgive me if I’d rather jump your bones than hear their undoubtedly very unconvincing excuses for leaving me to rot.”

Fair enough. “In that case,” Corvo smiles, “I’ll gladly oil my sword. It’s been neglected lately.”

“Got rusty in prison, did it?”

“Six months is a long time.”

“Fuck, four was already unbearable,” she groans. “Come on then, pretty boy, I’ve got a cabin below deck. Let’s make sure none of these shitheads sleep a wink tonight.”

“Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Corvo and Liz are terrible at flirting. But then you would be too, if you'd just spent months in prison.


	4. IV

“Drowning’s worse!”

“Set on fire’s worse!”

“Drowned is worse!”

Corvo sighs as the voices grow steadily louder, the squabble of the two Eels at the table next to his quickly turning into a row. They’ve been at it since they entered the _Undine_ ’s mess hall for breakfast, hissing at each other over their eggs. It’s rather detrimental to the quiet of the little corner he’s sequestered himself to – and in turn, rather detrimental to his mood.

Which was, half an hour ago, nothing short of elated. He’d awoken sore, but pleasantly so, his muscles aching from exertion rather than pain for the first time in far too many months. He’d been comfortable and warm, his limbs lazily entangled with Lizzy’s, and he’d spent a while just lying there, listening to the sound of the waves lapping against the side of the _Undine_ and marvelling at this sense of freedom he never thought he’d get to have.

When Lizzy woke up, she left him with a searing kiss and a promise to make plans to contact Daud about Emily’s location as soon as she finished whipping her crew back into shape – which, she’d proclaimed with a grin, should be before lunch. Corvo headed to breakfast alone and found himself a nice, calm corner – well, as calm as a room full of Dead Eels can be, that is. They’re a rambunctious bunch, but there’s a sense of camaraderie amongst them that reminds Corvo pleasantly of his old City Watch squad.

Except no officers of the Watch would ever be having the debate these two Dead Eels are having.

One of them slams her fist down on the table. “You ever see a man set on fire? What does he do? He jumps in the water!”

“So why do people who almost drowned say the water _burned_ in their lungs?” her companion counters stubbornly. “It’s the worst of both worlds!”

“He’s right,” Corvo cuts in before the woman can retort. “Drowning is worse.”

They both look over at him with varying degrees of trepidation – but the woman is more irked at being argued against than she is afraid of Corvo. “How would _you_ know?”

Because he’s experienced both, these past six months. “It’s basic logic.”

“Basic fucking logic?” she scoffs. “How the fuck is a little bit of water worse than having your flesh melted off?”

“The pain is about the same, actually.” His tone is nonchalant, but his fingers are shaking. “The difference lies in the context.”

“And what’s that?” the male Eel asks, eagerly leaning forward.

“You can swim, can’t you?”

“Of course we can fucking swim, we’re Dead Eels!”

Corvo nods in acknowledgement. “If you’re in the water, and you can swim, you won’t drown easily. So in order to drown you, you must be trapped. Caged, held, weighed down, what have you,” he explains, vaguely waving his hand. “People can’t touch you when you’re on fire, can’t stop you from trying to put it out. Drowning’s more hands-on. That’s why it’s worse.”

Both of them stare at him for a spell – and then the man barks a delighted laugh. “I fucking knew it!” he proclaims. “Pay up, Dame.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Dame spits, but she still slides a coin of ten across the table. “I ought to set _you_ on fucking fire.”

“Nah, didn’t you hear? You should drown me, that’s worse.”

Dame stands abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping loudly across the floor. “Go sit with your new best friend, then,” she snaps, teeth bared. “You fucking outsiders are all the same.”

“Dame, come on!” her companion calls after her, but Dame has already stalked out of the mess hall. “Fucking Void.”

Corvo can’t quite suppress his vaguely amused snort. Hot-headedness seems to be a requirement for the women of the Dead Eels.

Dame’s friend looks over at him. “Thanks for the backup,” he says as he pockets the coin. “Dame’s alright, but she can be a handful.”

“Don’t mention it,” Corvo waves away the gratitude. “If us ‘outsiders’ are all the same, we ought to stick together.”

He looks down at the Mark on his hand, smiling at his own private joke.

The Eel laughs, turning his chair around to join Corvo at his table. “I’m Vic,” he introduces himself. “Used to be Bottle Street, up until the plague came around. Lizzy let me join her crew, but I got a year of probation first. I can finally get my Eel tattoo next month.”

“Congratulations,” Corvo offers, cautiously. Vic is certainly talkative. “I wonder how long I’ll be on probation, with my background in law enforcement.”

“After six months in the slammer and busting out with Lizzy? You’re golden,” Vic says. “Besides, she likes you.”

His words are accompanied by a knowing grin, and Corvo feels some heat rush to his cheeks. True to her word, Lizzy had not been quiet last night – and she’d made sure he wasn’t either. “So, why did you leave Bottle Street?” he swiftly changes the subject. “I can’t imagine Slackjaw was particularly happy about it.”

Vic’s shoulders slump. “I liked Bottle Street. Slackjaw was a good boss,” he sighs wistfully. “But he came back to the distillery one day all proud-like, said he’d finally made it big. We all thought he cashed in on some major score. Turns out he’d gone and made an enemy of the fucking Knife of Dunwall, started a right war with the Whalers. Slackjaw always did say a boss is only as good as his enemies, but that was too much for me.”

Corvo has to fight to keep the scowl off his face. “You’re scared of Daud?”

“Damn straight I’m scared of him,” Vic proclaims with an ease Corvo did not expect. “I’m no coward, but I’m not daft either. I’m not fucking with Daud.”

“Hey, pretty boy!” Lizzy chooses that moment to holler from the doorway to the mess hall. “C’mon, we’re off to see Daud!”

Vic’s jaw drops, and Corvo chuckles. “Guess we’re going to fuck with Daud in your stead.”

He leaves Vic with a pat on the shoulder, joining Lizzy up on deck. The weather outside is abysmal, like it tends to be in Dunwall, but Lizzy is in a chipper mood despite the rain. “You ready for a fieldtrip?”

“Where to?” Corvo inquires as he follows Lizzy off the _Undine_. “Did Daud agree to meet?”

“Nope,” Lizzy says cheerfully. “We have a dead drop, the Whalers and the Eels, for quick contact, but Daud hasn’t been using it. Wakefield’s doing, probably. I wouldn’t have wanted to do business with that slimy fuck either. So we’ll have to go into his territory, in the Flooded District.”

“Into his _territory_?” he repeats, incredulous. “What was it you said yesterday? ‘Just stab me now and save me the trouble’?”

“Don’t tell me little Vicky has gotten to you,” Lizzy laughs. “Scared of the big bad Knife, now?”

“I’m _wary_ of him,” Corvo corrects irritably. “It’s not just him, it’s his whole damn gang. If they decide to kill us, there’s not a whole lot we can do about it.”

“Good thing they won’t,” she says. “Daud and I have that agreement, remember? He wouldn’t dare touch me, or anything that’s mine. He can’t have a war with the Bottle Street boys and the Dead Eels at the same time.”

“And _you_ can’t have a war with the Whalers and the Hatters at the same time,” Corvo points out, not unreasonably. “This is dangerous, Lizzy.”

Lizzy stops halfway across the dock, hands planted on her hips. “Do you want to find your kid or not?” she demands. “Daud is the best lead you have. I could send word through the grapevine that I want to meet up, but there’s no telling how long that’ll take. Right now, I know where he’s at, and that’s a fucking luxury, because Daud moves base whenever he damn well fancies.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right. The longer he sits on his hands, the longer Emily is out there somewhere, alone and scared and grieving for her parents. The choice is obvious. “Alright,” he relents. “Let’s go.”

“That’s the spirit,” Lizzy says. “Here, put this on before we head out.”

She hands him a jacket made of black leather, the symbol of the Dead Eels emblazoned in bold colours on its back. It’s identical to the one she’s wearing herself. “Matching outfits? My, Lizzy, I didn’t realise we were this serious.”

Lizzy smacks her shoulder into his. “Just claiming ownership, pretty boy,” she grins. “Like I said, the Whalers wouldn’t dare go after anything that’s mine.”

The surge of affection that clenches his chest is wholly unexpected, and Corvo can’t stop himself from smiling at how easily she calls him _hers_. With Jessamine, everything they did, everything they felt, had to be kept behind closed doors. Not that he could blame her for that; it was just how things had to be between an Empress and her bodyguard. But there was always a part of him that resented having to hide, having to be Jessamine’s dirty little secret.

He will miss Jessamine for the rest of his days. But this thing he has with Lizzy is quickly becoming more precious to him than he could say. _Lizzy_ is becoming more precious to him than he could say.

Corvo slips on the jacket. “Careful there, pretty girl,” he echoes the words Lizzy spoke to him back when he gave her the folding sword. “Keep giving a boy nice things like this and he might read into it.”

Lizzy laughs. “I’ll find you a fitted pair of pants next,” she all but purrs. “To show off some of your finer assets.”

She taps his backside, and Corvo bats her hand away with a grin. “Will those have the Dead Eels’ emblem on them too?”

“I was thinking more of imprints of my hands. In strategic places.”

“Quite the strategist you are.”

“You don’t know the half of it yet, pretty boy.”

* * *

It’s a long way from Draper’s Ward to the Flooded District, but this is clearly not Lizzy’s first rodeo. Steering a small dinghy with an engine so quiet Corvo is sure it has to be modified in some way, she slips them effortlessly past any and all patrols on the water. The Wrenhaven River is her turf, and she knows every inch of it.

It’s a good thing, too. Corvo has been so focused on this meeting with Daud that he nearly forgot he is the most wanted criminal in Dunwall, with Lizzy a close second after their escape from Coldridge. Any officer of the Watch would be thrilled to get his hands on them.

Not that they will. Corvo would rather throw himself on his sword than go back to Coldridge.

The closer they get to the Flooded District, the fewer patrols they have to dodge. By the time their little boat glides into the district proper, it feels as though they are the only people around for miles. No one has any business in this ruined plague-ridden part of the city. No one but the rats and the plague victims and, apparently, the Whalers.

“They’re watching,” Lizzy says conversationally, her voice echoing eerily between the dilapidated buildings. “Prepare for the fucking welcoming committee.”

Corvo has noticed them, too, the shadows disappearing in a flurry of the Void whenever he turns his head to get a closer look. _Mommy, what are they doing on the rooftops_?

His jaw hurts from how tightly he’s clenching it.

He starts when Lizzy lays a hand on his knee, her touch uncharacteristically soft. “You okay?”

“I’m on edge,” he answers honestly. “But I’ll manage. Outsider knows how often I had to hold my peace whenever some noble made an ignorant statement in court.”

Not that he’d always been able to; he recalls, quite vividly, the scandal he caused when he booted some lord from a state dinner for making an improper remark about Jessamine. Corvo doesn’t know how he can keep his temper when faced with the bastard who murdered her – but he knows he’ll have to. For Emily’s sake.

Lizzy stops and anchors their boat close to the old Chamber of Commerce, leading Corvo across a rickety makeshift walkway suspended between the buildings high above the water. It’s clear these paths were built for people with the ability to blink, but Corvo doesn’t dare call on his power here. Daud doesn’t know he was Marked, and that’s an advantage he’s not willing to give up.

True to Lizzy’s prediction, they are intercepted before they can make it to the Chamber, their path blocked by three Whalers. Two of them wear grey coats, their faces obscured by their trademark masks, but the third is clad in blue, his face uncovered.

“Oh, great,” Lizzy groans, not bothering to keep her voice down as they approach. “ _Him_.”

“What’s the problem with him?” Corvo asks, his volume at a more discreet level. The Whaler with whom Lizzy seems to have an issue doesn’t look at all menacing. He’s tall and slight of build, with blond hair and fine features. Gristol-born, probably, or Morleyan. If he wasn’t so clearly a member of Daud’s gang, Corvo wouldn’t have pegged him for an assassin.

But then appearances can be deceiving.

“He’s Daud’s own personal lapdog,” she says loudly. “If you ever decide you want to kill Daud, you’ll have to go through him. Literally.”

Immediately, all three of the Whalers have a hand on the hilts of their swords, and Corvo curses softly. “Lizzy, for Void’s sake, that’s not why we’re here!”

Lizzy shrugs, clearly enjoying the shit she’s stirring. “Down, boy,” she calls to the blond Whaler. “No one’s going after your Master today.”

“I see your sense of humour is as delightful as ever, Ms. Stride,” the Whaler drawls, clearly as impressed with Lizzy as she is with him. “What brings you and the Royal Protector to our doorstep, then?”

“We want to see Daud,” Lizzy says.

The Whaler’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I want to talk to him,” Corvo says. “ _Just_ talk. He has information I need.”

The Whaler gives him a once-over, eyes lingering on the weaponry hanging from Corvo’s belt. “Master Daud is not here at present,” he says. “But if you agree to disarm yourselves, you may wait in his office.”

Lizzy raises an eyebrow at him. “Letting us into the boss’ office without getting his express permission? I didn’t know you could be so bold, Thomas. Aren’t you worried we’ll cause a ruckus? Paw through your Master’s belongings?”

Thomas smiles thinly. “If you touch anything in there, I assure you it will be the last thing you ever touch.”

The threat is spoken in a perfectly polite tone that sends a shiver up Corvo’s spine. He can see why Thomas appears to be in charge in Daud’s absence – and he can also see why Lizzy doesn’t like him. His calm is almost eerily unshakable, and Lizzy likes calm about as much as she does the Hatters.

Corvo strips himself of blade and pistol and crossbow, deciding it best not to agitate the Whalers. He didn’t come here to fight, after all. And if it comes to that, he won’t be completely defenceless; they can’t take the Mark from him.

Lizzy begrudgingly follows his lead, and one of the masked Whalers takes their weapons from them.

She makes to move on, past the Whalers and into the Chamber of Commerce, but Thomas steps into her path. “What?” Lizzy all but snarls.

“ _All_ of your weapons, please.”

They stare each other down for a spell – and then Lizzy curses and bends down to slide a hidden blade out of her boot. She slaps it into Thomas’ awaiting palm with a lot more force than necessary.

Thomas hands the knife to one of his colleagues, then holds his palm out again, an expectant expression on his face.

Lizzy snorts, fishing another blade out of her other boot. “You’re smarter than you look, I’ll give you that.”

“High praise,” Thomas says dryly. Again, he passes the weapon to one of the other Whalers, then holds out his hand. “I do hope I can live up to it.”

A third blade is slammed atop his palm, taken from one of Lizzy’s sleeves this time. The process repeats itself three more times, Lizzy removing knives from her other sleeve, the inner lining of her jacket, and down the front of her shirt.

“That’s all of them,” she proclaims. “Unless you’d like me to yank out my teeth, too.”

“That will not be necessary,” Thomas says, purposefully ignoring Lizzy’s sarcasm. “Come with me.”

They follow Thomas into the building, and he leads them to the room Daud has made into his office. Along the way, Corvo is surprised to see that the Whalers have turned this place into something that could almost be considered a home, if not for the rotten floorboards and the holes in the ceiling. They come across a mess hall, a training room, a dormitory; there’s laughter coming from down another hallway. It feels like a refuge, a safe place. If he didn’t know any better, he would never have guessed this is where a gang of supernatural assassins live.

The sight of Daud’s office quickly brings him back to the reality of the situation, though. This is exactly what an assassin’s lair looks like, with wanted posters and pictures of targets lining the walls, completed contracts crossed out with red marker. Jessamine’s portrait is chief amongst them, her red-marred visage on display like a trophy.

He’s clenching his jaw again.

Thomas moves to stand behind the desk, and he gestures towards a few old overturned file cabinets sitting close by. There isn’t a single chair to be found, not even at the desk. “You may sit there while you wait.”

Corvo sits stiffly at the very edge of the least dented cabinet, but Lizzy just drops herself down beside him, stretching out exaggeratedly. Lying on her side, she props herself up on her elbow so she can look at Thomas. “Lovely furniture,” she lilts. “Were you going for post-apocalyptic nightmare with the décor?”

“You should ask Master Daud,” Thomas says, not taking his eyes off the papers strewn about the desk. “I’m sure he would be delighted to discuss interior design with you.”

“Daud’s not here.”

“If you had bothered to send word of your arrival, he might have been.”

Lizzy scowls. “You stopped using our dead drop.”

“Yes,” is all Thomas says.

“Why?” Lizzy demands.

“You should ask Master –”

“I’m asking _you_.”

Thomas lets out a heavy sigh. “Master Daud has ceased taking contracts for the time being.”

“No shit?” Lizzy breathes, sitting up. “The Big Knife’s getting out?”

Thomas finally looks up. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But not a drop of blood has been spilled by the Whalers since –”

“Don’t,” Corvo snaps. He’s digging his fingers into his knees so firmly he knows it will bruise. “Don’t say it.”

“As you wish, Lord Protector.”

“And don’t call me that,” he snarls, if only to be contrite. “I’m not Lord Protector anymore. You made sure of that.”

Thomas inclines his head. “As you wish, Mr. Attano.”

He returns to his paperwork, though it’s clear he never fully takes his eyes off Corvo and Lizzy. Corvo spends the time focusing on his breathing, on unclenching his jaw, relaxing his fingers. He doesn’t succeed until Lizzy slips her hand in his, her thumb rubbing gentle circles over his knuckles. She must know a thing or two about struggling to control a temper.

It takes hours. Thomas methodically organises the mess on the desk, occasionally interrupted by a Whaler coming in for orders. Lizzy tries several times to goad Thomas into a conversation, but he shuts her every attempt down swiftly. Though he hates to admit it, Corvo is vaguely impressed. Not many people can withstand Lizzy.

And then, when the sun is low on the horizon, it’s finally time.

With a rush of the Void, two figures appear in the middle of the office, both clad in bright red Whaler’s coats. One is a young woman, with dark skin and darker hair, her face twisted in what seems to be a permanent scowl. But Corvo’s attention is focused solely on the man who’s haunted his nightmares for months now, the man whose face is plastered on wanted posters from Dunwall to Samara, the man who murdered his Empress and left him to take the fall.

The Knife of Dunwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the two Dead Eels who have this 'drowing vs. setting on fire' debate in the middle of docks during the Dead Eels mission. Couldn't resist putting them in here.


	5. V

For just a second, it is as though they exist outside of time. Corvo cannot tear his eyes away from Daud, from the distinctive scar and the red coat and the broad blade at his hip – the very blade that ran Jessamine clean through. He looks different than he does in Corvo’s nightmares. Smaller, weaker, less imposing. More tired. The Daud in his dreams is nothing short of a monster; this Daud just seems to be _broken_.

And Corvo – Corvo is _furious_. How _dare_ Daud have broken himself when that privilege belongs to _him_? How dare he look at Corvo with so much guilt and pain in his eyes, when it was _Corvo_ who suffered most at his hands? How dare he stand there, how dare he breathe, how dare he _exist_?

He only realises he’s gotten to his feet when Lizzy tugs him back by their clasped hands, squeezing hard enough to hurt. He briefly entertains the thought of blinking out of her hold, just so he can sock Daud in the jaw – Void, Thomas was smart to take their weapons, if he only had his sword right now – but no, no, he can’t, he needs to calm down. He has to find out where Emily is, first.

 _Then_ he can re-evaluate whether or not to punch Daud in the face.

The woman with Daud glances down at their intertwined hands and snorts. “Your taste is getting worse, Stride.”

“Go fuck yourself, Lurk,” Lizzy says flippantly. “I sure as Void won’t anymore.”

Lurk’s lip curls. “I give you a month before you’re bored to tears.”

“That’s twenty-seven days longer than it lasted with you.”

Before Lurk can bite out another retort, Daud lays a hand on her shoulder. “Billie,” he says, in a voice rougher than gravel, “get out.”

Lurk shrugs out of his hold immediately. “Why?” she demands. “You don’t think you need someone to watch your back around these two assholes?”

“Thomas,” Daud calls, “would you mind sticking around to watch my back around these two assholes?”

There is a smile in Thomas’ voice when he answers. “Not at all, sir.”

“Out, Billie,” Daud says again. His tone books no argument. “This will be ugly enough without you and Lizzy at each other’s throats.”

Lurk opens her mouth as though she means to argue anyway, then thinks the better of it. With a bow so shallow it seems more like a jerk of the shoulders, she transverses out of the office.

The moment she’s gone, Lizzy laughs, using Corvo’s hand to pull herself to her feet. She leans on him, both to make a show of solidarity and to keep him from lunging at Daud. “You’re shit at choosing seconds, you know that, Knife?”

“She’s not landed me in Coldridge yet,” Daud snips back. He’s pointedly not looking at Corvo. “Wakefield didn’t do you that curtesy, I heard.”

Lizzy shrugs. “I broke out,” she says. “ _We_ broke out.”

Daud’s eyes flick from Lizzy’s face down to their joined hands, to their empty sword belts, to their identical jackets. They look every bit a front. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to know,” Corvo says, biting out his every word, “where my daughter is.”

Daud hums. “I figured as much. You wouldn’t have given up your weapons for anything less,” he surmises, correctly. “But I don’t know where she is.”

“ _You_ were the one who took her,” Corvo growls, his barely-there patience growing precariously thin. “What did you do with her?”

“We were instructed to bring her to an alleyway on the outskirts of the Palace District,” Daud provides the information readily enough. “They were waiting for us there. I don’t know where they took her afterwards.”

“Who are _they_?”

“Custis and Morgan Pendleton.”

Daud is saying something else, but Corvo can’t hear anything over the roaring in his ears, his heart pounding, his blood boiling at the mere mention of those names. He knows the Lords Pendleton, knows them for the vile, depraved men they are, knows them as thorns in Jessamine’s side at every meeting of Parliament, knows them as untouchable despite the many, many rumours surrounding them. He knows they are the worst Dunwall has to offer, and the thought of his daughter in their hands…

It’s not so much a conscious decision as it is instinct, a primal, animalistic desire to _hurt_ ; one second, he’s standing with Lizzy, the next, he’s blinked halfway across the room, his knuckles stinging and sleek with blood. Daud staggers away from him, clutching his nose, and Corvo draws his fist back again to make the bastard feel even a fraction of the pain he’s had to endure these past six months –

But he doesn’t even get to have that. Before he can so much as try, the tip of a sword is an inch from his throat, forcing him back at the threat of certain death. Thomas stands between Corvo and Daud, tendrils of the Void still clinging to his form, blade held aloft in a defensive position. His whole posture radiates cold fury, and his voice is like ice when he speaks.

“You will _not_ touch him again.”

Lizzy has her arms wrapped around Corvo’s bicep before he can snarl something back, or worse, attempt to lunge for the blade. “Told you,” she says, her tone too tense for her statement to be as airy as she wants it to be, “lapdog.”

Thomas doesn’t so much as blink until Daud straightens up again. “It’s fine, Thomas,” he says. His pronunciation is clear enough for Corvo to know he didn’t break his nose. “I deserved that.”

“You deserve _worse_ ,” Corvo spits. His knuckles sting, and fuck, _fuck_ , he just gave away his element of surprise, showed Daud his powers, and he didn’t even manage to break the bastard’s nose.

“Yes,” Daud agrees easily. He fishes an off-white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and begins to clean the blood off his face as best he can. “But you didn’t come here for justice.”

He raises his left hand, the Mark of the Outsider glowing brightly even through the thick leather of his gloves, and Corvo instinctively recoils – he will _not_ be caught by Daud’s tethering magic again – but that’s not what Daud aims to do. When the glow of his Mark dims, three Whalers appear before their Master in a rush of the Void.

Two in grey, masked, one in blue, unmasked. It seems to be the hierarchical structure here.

The blue-clad Whaler is an older man, Serkonan, streaks of grey in his thick dark hair. His sharp eyes flick from Daud, his nose still bleeding, to Corvo, Lizzy hanging on his arm, then to Thomas, who has yet to sheathe his blade, and he sighs. “Clusterfuck of the day, boss?”

“Something like that,” Daud says. “I need the three of you to pay a visit to Pendleton Manor. See if Emily Kaldwin is being kept there.”

“Understood,” the Whaler says. “Should we bring her back here, if we find her?”

“No,” Corvo cuts in immediately. “I don’t want any of you laying a hand on her again.”

The Whaler raises an eyebrow at Daud, who nods. “You heard him, Rulfio. No retrieval. And be quick about it.”

“Aren’t we always?” Rulfio grins, but he salutes Daud nevertheless, and with another rush of the Void, he and his two masked colleagues vanish into the shadows.

“They won’t be long,” Daud says to Corvo, as though he’s just sent out his kids to fetch him the newspaper. “The Estate District isn’t far.”

Corvo crosses his arms. “What if they’re not keeping her there?”

“Then I’ll send more men into the city to find her,” Daud makes a surprisingly helpful offer. “With the full force of the Whalers, finding someone in Dunwall never takes more than a day or two.”

“Even when the head of state is doing everything in his power to keep them hidden?”

Daud smirks. “ _Especially_ when the head of state is doing everything in his power to keep them hidden.”

Corvo rolls his eyes, and Lizzy snorts. “Are you two done with your dick-measuring contest, then?” she drawls. “Because I have some business to discuss, Knife.”

“There’s no business left to discuss, Lizzy,” Daud sighs. He sounds tired. “I’m done.”

“Really?” The surprise is evident on her face. “And here I thought blondie was just covering your ass. Oh, no, wait,” she feigns an epiphany, snapping her fingers. “Coveting. He’s _coveting_ your ass.”

Thomas sheathes his sword – and there is surely an innuendo to be made about that, but he doesn’t give Lizzy the opportunity. “We can’t all rely on Coldridge Prison’s matchmaking service,” he lilts, though there is a harshness to his tone that wasn’t there before. Lizzy hit a nerve, it seems.

From the grin on Lizzy’s face, she’s realised as much. “Hey, I’m not judging. Nothing beats a fine Serkonan ass.”

Daud heaves a sigh, rubbing his temples. “Is it your life’s mission to make an enemy of every single one of my Whalers?”

“Nah,” Lizzy grins. “It’s more of a fun side objective, really.”

“You’re lucky I’m retiring,” Daud grumbles.

“So it’s true?” Corvo has to ask, has to know. “You haven’t killed anyone since _her_?”

“None,” Daud says, with a vehemence that takes Corvo aback. “When I killed your Empress, I… something broke inside me. It was a long time coming, I suppose. But I can assure you, I’ve had enough killing.”

Corvo’s lips curl into a snarl. “A pity you couldn’t figure that out _before_ you killed Jessamine.”

“Yes, it is,” Daud murmurs. “For what it’s worth, bodyguard, I’m sorry.”

He looks Corvo in the eye when he says it, the sincerity in his own clear as day. And it’s not worth a whole damn lot, in the grand scheme of things, but the idea that Daud won’t be killing anymore, that Jessamine’s death at least prevented more murder, is more comforting than Corvo expected it to be. “Just find my daughter, assassin,” Corvo says. “Find her, and I won’t come back here to stick a sword between your ribs.”

Daud nods, the corners of his mouth lifting into the barest of smiles. “Fair enough.”

Waiting is, this time, a much less strenuous affair. Daud and Thomas speak in hushed voices over the desk, going over some of the day’s paperwork; Corvo listens in for a while, but it’s mostly about gathering information and collecting old debts, and it’s easy to lose interest. With the assurance that Daud won’t be continuing the assassination business, he couldn’t care less what the former Knife of Dunwall chooses to do with his life.

Rulfio and his colleague return after little over an hour. “No luck, boss,” he reports. “The manor stands empty. Doesn’t look like anyone’s properly lived there in days, maybe weeks.”

Daud hums, not seeming overly surprised. “Figures,” he sighs. “Burrows probably has her stowed away somewhere out of the way. We’ll have to do a systematic sweep of the city.”

“How long will that take?” Corvo asks, trying – and failing – not to sound as disappointed as he feels.

“In the worst case scenario? Three days,” Daud says. “That’s if she’s in the absolute last place we look. Burrows won’t have moved her out of Dunwall.”

“You’ll come by Draper’s when you have the intel?” Lizzy asks, her tone uncharacteristically serious.

“I know where you’re anchored,” Daud nods. 

“Good,” Lizzy says, with a smile that’s all teeth, “because if I’m going to have to make the slog back here, I’m not going to be happy. And neither will the three dozen Eels I’ll take along.”

Daud holds her gaze for a long moment. “Noted.”

“Always nice when we understand each other,” Lizzy drawls. “Anything else you need, Corvo?”

He cannot keep the affection from his voice when he answers. “You’ve taken care of everything, it seems.”

“Then let’s go home.”

* * *

Three days come and go. There is no sign of Daud.

Corvo is furious, both with the assassin and with himself for _trusting_ the assassin. Of course a man like Daud wouldn’t keep his word – Corvo wouldn’t be surprised if his display of remorse was nothing but an utter farce. Lizzy did say he changes base frequently; chances are he spent the last three days packing up and moving his operation to Outsider knows where.

Lizzy shares in his anger, though there is also a sadness about her. “I’ve known Daud for years,” she says on the evening of day four, leaning over the gunwale of the _Undine_ , looking out over the water. “Wouldn’t have called him a friend, but he was… steady. Whatever else, you could expect the Old Knife to do what he set out to.”

Corvo can’t contain his disdainful snort. “Clearly.”

“Don’t be an ass,” she admonishes, though with little bite. “So Daud didn’t come through. Sucks, but that’s how it is. We’ll just have to figure out another way to find your kid.”

“What other way is there, Lizzy?” He meant to sound exasperated, but it just comes out despondent. “No one knows where she is except for those in league with Burrows.”

“Then we’ll go after one of them,” Lizzy proclaims. “I’ve always wanted to knock the Overseers down a peg, and not even Holger Square can stand up to the collective force of the Dead Eels. I might even get Slackjaw to lend me a few men to storm the Office.”

She says it so easily, as though they’ll just be able to waltz into the Office of the High Overseer and extort Emily’s location from Thaddeus Campbell. But the knowledge that she’s not even close to ready to stop fighting, that she’ll stick with him in his search no matter what, makes him breathe just a little easier.

“Thank you, Lizzy,” he murmurs. “I don’t think I would be able to do this without you.”

“Damn straight,” she says, but from the way she leans into his side, he can tell the sentiment is mutual. “You’re one of us now, pretty boy. And the Dead Eels look after their own.”

He snakes an arm around her waist, and they remain that way, watching the sun set over the Wrenhaven.

Until there is a rush of displaced air at their backs, and Corvo and Lizzy whirl around synchronously, blades drawn in the blink of an eye, pointed straight at –

Daud and Thomas.

“Peace, bodyguard,” Daud says, his hands held up in surrender. “I have your information.”

“You’re late,” Corvo snarls immediately. He doesn’t sheathe his sword. “You said no more than three days.”

“There was a complication.” The words are accompanied by a weary sigh, and only then does Corvo realise just how exhausted Daud looks. His eyes are deep-set, bruised from lack of sleep, and his very posture is sagged, nothing at all like the imposing figure he presented at the Flooded District. Thomas, behind him, looks little better.

“What kind of complication?” Corvo demands. “Did something happen to Emily?”

Daud shakes his head. “No, it was…”

He can’t seem to find the words, and Thomas steps forward, laying a careful hand on Daud’s forearm. “The Overseers launched an attack on Rudshore,” he says. There is nothing left of the crisp, business-like tone he employed before; he sounds like he’s recovering from a severe head cold. “We lost seven of our own.”

“Fuck,” Lizzy breathes, her eyes wide. “How in the Void did they find you?”

Daud chuckles mirthlessly. “Because you were right, Lizzy,” he rasps. “I’m shit at choosing seconds.”

“Lurk sicked _Overseers_ on you?” Lizzy exclaims, incredulous. “Fucking Void, that’s low. Not even Wakefield was scum enough to involve the Abbey.”

“I should’ve seen it coming,” Daud says. “I should’ve –”

“None of us saw it coming,” Thomas argues immediately. “She was one of us. She was _family_.”

Daud swallows thickly. “It doesn’t matter now. She’s gone. And we didn’t come here to complain about Lurk.”

He looks at Corvo, who can’t quite keep the eager expression off his face. “You know where Emily is?”

“Yes,” Daud confirms, latching onto the change of subject. “She’s being kept at the Golden Cat.”

Corvo can’t have heard that right. “What?”

His voice is pitched dangerously low, and he doesn’t miss the way Thomas’ hand comes to rest on his blade. Daud just clucks his tongue. “The Golden Cat,” he repeats the dreaded words. “Apparently Custis and Morgan have been living there for the past fortnight.”

“The Golden Cat,” Corvo says, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “They put her – they’re keeping her – they – a brothel!”

He can’t even form a complete sentence anymore. Those _bastards_. Those Voiddamned, Outsider-cursed, absolute _bastards_. How dare they treat his daughter – Jessamine’s daughter, the _Empress_ – this way? How fucking _dare_ they?

His hands are balled tightly into fists – but this time, he has no desire to swing them at Daud’s face. What he wants to do is wrap his fingers around Burrows’ throat and slowly squeeze the life out of him, watch the light in his beady eyes dim until there’s nothing left. What he wants to do is snap the Pendletons’ necks, drive his sword through Campbell’s heart. What he wants to do is hold his daughter in his arms.

“Lizzy –” he begins, but Lizzy doesn’t need prompting.

“We’ll go tomorrow morning,” she says. “The Cat’s at the waterfront; I should be able to steer the _Undine_ pretty close. They won’t know what hit them.”

Corvo nods, relieved. Whatever else he thinks of the Golden Cat, it is likely not as fortified as Holger Square or Dunwall Tower. They should be able to breech it with little trouble, especially in the morning when traffic to a house of pleasure is low.

Tomorrow, he’ll have Emily back.

“Daud,” Corvo calls, waits until the assassin meets his eye. “You have my gratitude, for this. But if I ever see you again, I _will_ kill you. That’s a promise.”

“Understood,” Daud says simply.

“Guess that’s the end of our partnership, then,” Lizzy says. “Take care of yourself, Old Knife. Or rather, you take care of him, Thomas.”

Thomas bows at the waist, wearing a soft smile. “As you say, Ms. Stride.”

The two assassins disappear with the Void just as the sun completely disappears behind the horizon.

It’s a fitting metaphor, if nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ides of March seemed like an appropriate time to update this fic.


End file.
